


Makgadikgadi Madness & Other Hammond Week Short Fic from the TGS Spring Challenge

by BourbonNeat



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, Episode-centric, Established Relationship, First Kiss, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Pranks and Practical Jokes, Threesome - M/M/M, fest: TGS Spring Challenge 2014
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-29
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-21 05:36:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 2,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1539596
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BourbonNeat/pseuds/BourbonNeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven Richard Hammond-centric drabbles, droubles and other short fic from Hammond Week in the TGS Spring Challenge.</p><p>Ratings range from PG to NC-17, pairings range from gen/friendship to all permutations of the TG3 and both are indicated in the chapter title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Makgadikgadi Madness – Richard/James, PG-13

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is fiction. It never happened and is not meant to imply anything about the people featured in the story. Complete unreality from a fanciful mind.

Botswana is gorgeous. Clusters of dark green trees growing in vibrant red dirt giving way to endless desert vistas of sun baked clay, with each night’s sunset more indescribably pretty than the last.

Beautiful and strange. And James is going mad.

It’s not so much Botswana as Richard. Or, rather, the combination of the two.

At home James can work beside the man, enjoy his pleasantly boisterous company while they work on their bikes or nip down to his local for a pint, and keep his feelings in check. Hidden. Tamped down hard like the Botswana earth before their tires roll over it, breaking it apart and flinging it into the air as so much dust.

Here, however, Richard is so taken with the landscape, so besotted with his eccentric little car, that he’s every perfectly Richard thing all at once, and the wanting of him hits James so hard that he’s finding it nearly impossible to maintain his carefully constructed veneer of sane and rational.

The view from Kubu Island is simply astonishing, to borrow Jeremy’s words because James is rendered speechless. But now Jeremy’s buggered off somewhere with Andy and the crew and James stands alone with Richard. The setting sun coats the floor of the Makgadikgadi Pan in fiery reds and oranges as it slowly disappears over the horizon into a line of shimmering mirage so perfect that for a short while it’s no work at all to imagine the expanse as the vast lake it once was.

Richard tries to put words to the beauty of the spectacle but all James can do is nod along. He’s captivated instead by the rich tones of the man’s voice, the warmth of his smile, the long patch of chest exposed by a crisp white shirt in possession of entirely too few buttons. Or, perhaps just the right amount.

The glow of the sun’s dying rays highlight the thin sheen of sweat that glistens on Richard’s lightly tanned skin, skin James has always felt certain would be not just warm, but hot beneath his fingertips if ever he were bold enough to touch. Richard asks something and James tries to forcibly refocus his brain on the question. But, as he lifts his eyes to meet Richard’s, one bead of sweat coalesces in the hollow of the man’s throat, hovering for a moment before beginning a tantalizing slide along Richard’s collarbone and down that long patch of fit chest. James’ iron self control falls with it. 

And he must be going mad. Must be. Because suddenly James finds himself leaning down and pressing his lips to that hot skin – and it is indeed hot – tracing the salty path of the droplet back up to Richard’s collarbone with his tongue.

And Richard doesn’t yell or leap away or hit him. He doesn’t demand an explanation or make polite noises of disinterest. Instead, with a sigh of pleasure, he winds one hand through James’ hair and pulls him close.

Madness. Wondrous madness.


	2. Heat From the Fire – Richard/James/Jeremy, NC-17

Night swimming turned out to be a brilliant idea. The stars blanketing the sky were reflected in the ripples of the lake’s surface, creating an expanse of such stunning natural beauty that Richard knew the writer in James and Jeremy would have to struggle not to call it romantic. The cool water soothed bodies still overheated from a day in the sun, as droplets clinging to wet strands of hair and running in rivulets over bare backs and chests drew touches that began as playful but soon grew heated.

Returning to the campsite still damp from the lake, but hard now and wanting, they brushed against one another with increasing frequency as they moved. With no one else in sight for miles, they dispensed with the tent and put all of the sleeping bags together under the stars. The crackling campfire warmed their skin to the touch, inviting hands to wander, caress and tease, the last remaining bits of clothing to fall away.

The freckles dappling Jeremy’s shoulders. The streaks of white in the long waves that framed James’ face. Glittering eyes and lusty grins. In the flickering light of the flames, all of Richard’s favorite sights took on a warm, sensual glow and he hardly knew where to begin. He wanted to touch everything, to taste.  

He arched back in pleasure as James worked over his shoulders with long, sure pianist’s fingers, shivering deliciously in the warmth of the fire as the man pressed slow, open mouthed kisses down his back. Richard leaned forward to kiss his own way down Jeremy’s chest. Trailed his tongue down the older man’s belly and over one hip, lapping at the mineral taste from the lake that lingered over the salt and musk of Jeremy’s skin.

James lay down beside them both, one hand still lazily tracing circles over the curve of Richard’s arse. Soon Richard heard the familiar low, musical moan that meant Jeremy had found a rhythm with large hands that were, in this context, anything but useless. Smiling at the sounds, Richard traced the length of Jeremy’s cock with his tongue, earning a gasp of pleasure. He teased around the tip briefly before taking all of that thick hardness into his mouth and beginning a long, slow suck, enjoying the way Jeremy writhed and whimpered beneath him.

Richard doubted he would ever fully bring the others around to his love of the Lake District. However, as their own delicious sounds drowned out the noise of the crickets, and long fingers caressed their way up the inside of his thigh toward his as yet untouched cock, Richard’s last coherent thought was that at least he probably wouldn’t have to beg and plead quite so much before James and Jeremy agreed to come camping with him again.


	3. This is work? – Richard and James and Jeremy (just gen cocking about), PG

“I’ve got a brilliant idea,” Richard tried desperately for serious but was a few too many pints in to pull it off properly, his spikey head already bobbing with the threat of impending giggles. “I want to race in a jet pack!”

On the other side of the table James and Jeremy began speaking at the same time, their words exasperated but their expressions fond.

“Bloody hell, Richard…”

“Again with the jet pack?”

The first planning meeting for series four had gone well and now the three presenters were rewarding themselves for a an entire day of professional behavior – well, a more or less recognizable approximation of it at any rate – with an evening at their favorite pub. Naturally, the conversation kept returning to ideas for the new series even though they had all clearly left that fine, fine line between brilliant telly and ideas too ridiculous for even Top Gear to contemplate, in the dust about three rounds ago.

“Think about it,” the world’s most tenacious Hamster continued to plead his case, literally bouncing with excitement now. “We can mix a legitimate rush hour commuting options test with James Bond. Slow can race on a motorcycle, we’ll put Jezza in an Aston, and I can use a jet pack.”

“What, and put Stiggie on a bus I suppose?” Jeremy teased dismissively. “Rubbish. Enough with the jet pack already. It’s never going to happen, Hammond.”

“Hey,” Richard protested. “S’valuable consumer information, this is.”

“Come on chaps, these ideas are crap,” James said when all three finally stopped laughing long enough to breathe normally again. “Let’s go play darts or something. Think I’ve finally had enough bitter to reach that sweet spot where I’m actually good.”

“Darts are boring,” Richard proclaimed, earning an exasperated glare from May. “No. Fact, James. Darts are so boring you couldn’t even make them interesting with cars.” Although, on second thought… “Wait, that’s what I want to do this series. I want to play darts with cars.”

“No, Richard. You can’t have a jet pack and you can’t play darts with cars.” Jeremy was now shaking with laughter. “Hamster, your ideas are so rubbish, you’re making me sound like health and bloody safety over here.”

“No, hang on,” James said, shocking them both with his sudden excitement over what was clearly a mad idea. “That actually sounds… I mean what if we got one of those nitrogen cannons they use to make the car leaps for James Bond?”

“You know what?” Richard’s huge brown eyes danced with excitement. “I think you can even control the pressure on those cannons. There could actually be some skill in this.”

“Alright now that is brilliant,” Jeremy joined in, doubly gleeful at no longer having to play unlikely voice of reason. “I’ll bet Andy even knows where to get one of those cannons.”

As they continued discussing logistics with increasing detail, Richard couldn’t help but shake his head in wonder. This was work? Clearly he was the luckiest bastard alive.


	4. Things You Can’t Buy at Oslo Airport – Richard/Jeremy, PG

Jeremy often found sleep elusive at the best of times. But here, aboard a ship in the middle of the Arctic Ocean, sharing very cramped quarters with a jumble of overly chatty, unwelcome thoughts, sleep was impossible.

He was thrilled to finally be filming this documentary, bringing much deserved public attention to some of the bravest men – boys, really – who’d ever lived, while indulging his intellectual side with a subject he was passionate about. During the day, it was brilliant. Bitterly cold and rather frightening at times, but brilliant.

Alone at night, however, the crushing doubt settled in. This documentary, honoring these men, was important to him and he worried he would cock it up somehow. While he knew the ship was built for it, the sounds of the hull striking ice sent waves of anxiety crashing through him. He’d managed to set off another tempest in the Daily Fail teapot right before he left, more or less just by being himself, the fallout from which wore him down more than he cared to admit. And he’d forgotten to bring a hat.

Given the subject matter of his documentary, a forgotten hat seemed an awfully silly thing to be bothered by. But it was just one more nagging reminder of yet another failure, the latest on a lengthy list he seemed compelled to review in painstaking detail on wakeful nights like these. A year ago, Francie would have packed his bags for him, and remembered everything. Of course, at the end she took care of him more from a sense of duty than love, but that was his fault too, wasn’t it?

He picked up his mobile and tweeted a few photos from filming, hoping inane activity would chase the thoughts from his head. It didn’t. On top of everything he really missed…no, out here he was forced to admit that it was so much more than missing. He’d gone and fallen hopelessly, stupidly in love and with someone who couldn’t possibly view their relationship becoming, well, a _Relationship_ as anything more than a lark. Stupid, stupid man.

His mobile beeped, alerting him to a text. He glanced at the display out of habit, fully intending to ignore the sender…until he saw that it was Richard. Breaking out in a broad grin for the first time in hours, Jeremy opened the message.

_Can’t sleep, old man?_

_Can I ever?_ He replied. _What are you still doing up?_ Richard, annoyingly, usually did not have trouble sleeping.

_Oddly enough, I find it hard to sleep these days without a snoring orangutan in my bed._

Oh. That was…he honestly hadn’t expected to be missed. Couldn’t very well say that though. _I do not snore._

_Right. Well, whatever it is you call that racket you make, I miss it. And there’s no one here hogging all of my blankets. It’s awful._

Smiling now, feeling warmer than he had in days, Jeremy typed, ‘I miss you too.’ and hit send quickly, before he could overthink it.


	5. Added to the List – Richard/James/Jeremy, PG-13

Lying on the dusty ground, staring up at the Burmese sky, Richard decided horses should definitely be added to the list of things with which Top Gear did not mix. Bloody hell, his arm hurt. At least, in the end, this would make great telly. Probably.

Lying on a surprisingly comfortable bed, staring up at the roof of the sports lorry while the other two “helped him rest”, Richard remembered why _this_ was already on the list of better uses for Jeremy’s mouth. Bloody hell, he was good with his tongue. Therapy like this made up for the injury. Almost.


	6. A Matter of Perspective – Richard/James, R

Drenched in sweat. Teasing. Caressing. Mattress springs creak as they rock back and forth, back and forth. Bright blue eyes meet expressive brown in an exchange of endearments they’re never quite able to put into words.

Long fingers muss short spiky hair and smaller tanned hands grip an improbably perfect arse as they come together. Hips rolling, slow and sweet. Then hard and frantic. The low budget hotel room test that follows so naturally on the heels of each paired review, every cheap car challenge.

This bed is unremarkable in every way. Plain and utilitarian in a nondescript hotel room. Neither especially comfortable, nor overly hard and lumpy. It does not inspire mad giggles. It gives no one the fizz. But they’re both here now and they have the luxury of time. For tonight, it’s perfection.


	7. April’s Fools – Richard and Andy and Jeremy (Gen Shinanigans), PG

The weather that morning was warm and cheerful. Richard Hammond, however, was neither of these things as he put the Mini Clubman through its questionable paces, occasionally treating the cameras to a smile so plastered on, it verged on demented. Thinking of positive things to say was a struggle, but he would be damned if he gave that smug git even an ounce of satisfaction by admitting how much he was hating this test drive.

“…and here we go, ‘round Chicago. The Clubman certainly is exciting in the corners…” _Because you’re never exactly sure where it’s going to go._ Oh, how he hated this car.

“…and when you consider how it looks…” _Hideous. Awkward. Like something children should be riding in an American theme park._ “…the third door… er… the double doors at the back!” _That you can’t actually see out of._ “No one can say it looks boring.”

Richard gritted his teeth as he crossed the line and set off on another lap. _Andy Wilman is an evil, evil bastard…_

 

*** * * * ***

Jeremy Clarkson found the evil bastard himself in Brian’s truck, watching the test drive from all camera angles, a satisfied smile on his face as he listened to Richard’s pained running commentary over the audio equipment.

“Wilman.”

“Clarkson,” he acknowledged Jeremy with a nod.

“Still sporting that terribly attractive hat, I see.”

On its own, terrible would have been an accurate description of the ski cap that had covered Andy’s entire head for the last two weeks, completely at odds with the pleasant warmth they’d been enjoying this spring.

“Indeed I am,” came the terse reply.

“Hamster’s certainly had some interesting reviews lately.” Jeremy’s words were casual – a simple matter-of-fact observation – but his blue eyes twinkled with mischief.

“That he has.”

“The perennially hateful Beetle. The decade’s most boring Vauxhall,” Jeremy ticked off Richard’s recent film schedule with exaggerated movements of one long hand. “And that Smart. Electric no less.” He grinned, shaking his head slowly in admiration.

“Sounds about right.”

“Did I hear correctly that tomorrow our fair Hamster will be driving a Morris Marina?”

Andy finally smiled, looking especially pleased with himself. “It’s good to revisit the classics from time to time, don’t you think?”

“Git. Why haven’t you just used our old Repton trick? Could have washed all that pink out of your hair weeks ago.”

Jeremy wouldn’t have thought it possible, but Andy’s grin went even wider. “Oh but I did. Hammond just doesn’t need to know that yet.”

Richard’s voice rose over the audio, drawing their attention again – a yelp of annoyed surprise he was all too obviously trying to pass off as his usual excited giggle. “…Right. Yes. Very exciting in the corners…”

Jeremy’s laugh started out as snicker and grew until the deep rumbles shook his entire body. Already on the verge himself, Andy couldn’t help but join in and soon they were leaning on each other for support, laughing long and hard, still just a pair of mischievous school boys.


End file.
